


no other end of the world will there be

by renquise



Category: Assassin's Creed, Iron - Woodkid (Music Video)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The land around them is reshaped every day, and Malik has given up on mapping its contours. At first, it was only the swell of a hill that had not been there the day before, or a ridge that had shifted westward over the night, but now, they awaken each winter-dark morning to a foreign land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no other end of the world will there be

**Author's Note:**

> AU based on the music video for Woodkid's [Iron](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSkb0kDacjs).

The end comes in a rain of ash and smoke, though there is no fire.

The owl-eagle shifts restlessly on his wrist, its talons digging into Malik’s thick glove, and Malik sends it aloft, watching its dun belly as it is swallowed by the clouds. 

The land around them is reshaped every day, and Malik has given up on mapping its contours. At first, it was only the swell of a hill that had not been there the day before, or a ridge that had shifted westward over the night, but now, they awaken each winter-dark morning to a foreign land. 

They only need to know where they are going, says Altaïr, his chin lifted to the distant mountains, but it sits ill with Malik.

There must still be days passing, though they can’t tell anymore. It is always dark, now, and the sky tumbles down in smoking pieces all around them. There are no stars to navigate at night, nor a sun during the day—the closest they get is something like the thin ambient glow of a grey morning, but more muffled still, more unsettling than the pure darkness, when the flare of fire carves a shivering circle out of the black. 

His bird always comes back to his hand, and that, at least, offers a measure of meagre certainty. 

Altaïr is a constant presence, ranging afar but retaining an uncanny ability to find his way back, and Malik knows he should be glad of it.

They meet Connor in the burnt-out wreckage of a building, the original structure unidentifiable in the ashes. He is very still, but three wolves roam restlessly through the ruins, whining in the back of their throats and sniffing at the thick carpet of dust. Perhaps they can distinguish something that their human senses cannot, but Malik doubts it; ashes do not hold any smell, and once things are reduced to that state, it is very hard to tell what was once a book, or a chair, or a limb, or a body. 

Connor comes with them. He is silent for the first few days, though he slowly finds his voice again, the way they did. Around his neck he has two keys, and he does not know what they open.

Ho there, travelers!, a man astride a horse says when they cross into the foothills, and under his horned helmet, Ezio is younger than expected, a friendly and welcome addition to their company. Connor seems somewhat baffled by him, but his wolves take to him at once, weaving around the feet of his horse, and Malik’s owl comes to rest on his pommel, at times.

Malik finds Altaïr sleeping against the wide flank of Ezio’s horse, and for a moment, Malik is tempted to join him; there is no cold in the air, but there is no warmth, either, and he thinks they all yearn for uncomplicated proximity. Though Connor still does not touch very much, he seems have grown used to the presence of Ezio’s arm around his shoulders, and his wolves curl close to them at night, their animal heat comforting. 

When Malik wakes, Altaïr is already gone to scout the terrain ahead. He wakes his owl with a gentle touch to its crown, its feathers sleek and smooth as water, and sends it up, and if Ezio notices as he curries his horse, he stays silent.

They hear different things when they pass through the broken towns: that there are shining battlements far to the west, untouched by the skies, that the boy is awakening there, that the boy has grown into a man in his sleep, that he goes by different names, that he is simply a number, ten and seven and counting, that he needs to be saved, that he is going to save them. They cannot be sure of any truth in the rumours. Still, they press onward.

Malik keeps his sword close at hand, and he knows the others do the same, much as there is no call for them. There are no riots in the towns they pass, only a quiet despair, and that, you cannot raise a sword to. Ezio’s blade swings at his side and Connor’s tomahawk is restless in his hand, and Altaïr’s gait is loose and ready. None of them are men of inaction; that is why they are going, and not seeking shelter from the rains in the ruins. 

Connor brings down a deer, and his hands linger over its butter-soft coat, touching the black stains that had started taking root in its skin and would have eventually crawled through to hollow out muscle and bone and sinew alike. It is a mostly painless process; the creature could have run until the hollow in its thigh crumpled on itself, its leg lamed mid-step, or its organs collapsed into black dust inside the cage of its chest. 

They have all lost things, things that have crumbled into ash at their touch, flesh turned to ragged edges and then to fine dust, a mouth still open on a word even as he choked on his own lungs and grasped for a hand already gone to pieces. It’s best not to speak of it.

They are all young and strong, and before the end, had never been given cause to fear for the wholeness of their bodies. 

When Altaïr comes to him with a needle and ash-dark ink and the keys, Malik turns away to the fire and prods at it, throwing long shadows up the trees and far into the woods.

If you think this is some sort of penance, I want no part of it, Malik says. 

Altaïr grimaces and looks into the fire, but does not back down. 

Altaïr bends his neck for him, presenting the rough-cut edge of his hair at his nape. Malik has always had a steady touch, and his hand does not shake as he pushes the needle into Altaïr’s skin and rubs the ash-ink into the lines. It is not a fast process. Altaïr does not ask him to stop, however, and Malik sets his jaw and concentrates on keeping the lines fine and dark. He covers the tattoos with care, and though Altaïr’s voice is tight with pain, he also sounds steady, focused, when he thanks Malik.

When the rains come, now, the pieces of sky char their skin, and Ezio takes short, pained breaths as Connor runs water over his shoulder, eyes wide and panicked, trying to stem the burn. They do not know if it is a consequence of nearing the battlements, or if whatever bonds holding the world together are simply burnt through and snapping, one by one.

They do not have a map, and they have the keys, but no lock to match. The keys look simple enough to the eye, near-identical, but the teeth are crenulated into ever-smaller fractals that Malik can only discern by touch, with no hope of replication. Malik knows that he did not put these details into the outline that crowns Altaïr’s spine, but he swears he can feel their intricacies when he runs his fingers over the lines, wonders if their contour is shifting under Altaïr’s skin as the land does.

Later, Altaïr comes to him to add Ezio’s horse rearing on his ribs, and then Connor’s wolves riding his shoulders, and much later still, the wings of an owl-eagle spread over his chest. When Malik has placed the last swoop of sharp talons, Altaïr kisses his cheek, as would a brother, and then his mouth, flying on pain and endorphins, and Malik kisses back, because there are too few things in this world already, and fewer still with every day, and he wants to grasp this thing, broken and flawed as it is, and hold fast.

They gain ever more members for their doomed company, women and men and refugees every one, sharp-edged and wounded-eyed, and Malik realizes with a jolt when he sees the campfires stretch over the plains that what they have is an army, though they do not know their enemy. He would have never thought himself a general, but they have soldiers, and a banner to lead them, the outline of keys held aloft in Altaïr’s hand and etched into his skin.

There is a coming dawn—a thin line of gold pushing through the heavy clouds—and Malik looks ahead and tries to hope.


End file.
